28 February 2001 ~ Phone call (in black and white)...

"I like black and white," he says. "I don't know if I said that before."

"Yeah," I say. "Cool." Not quite sure what to say to that... I knew what to say, at least, when he asked if I'd ever seen 'Dancer in the Dark.'"

It's way past my bedtime, the night before two long shifts. I'm awake and burning a clove cigarette, sipping orange juice out of a plastic cup, and picking nervously at my fingers. The clove is to make my apartment stop smelling like feet, the orange juice is for orange juice's sake, and the nervousness is because I just got off the phone with a complete stranger...

A few days ago, he walked up to me in the coffee shop, introduced himself, and handed me his number on a scrap of Order Slip. It's not the first time a guy has offered me his number while I'm standing behind a counter looking useless. It is, however, the first time a guy introduced himself as a photographer and asked if I'd be interested in having my picture taken, before giving me his number...

I gave him my number as well, because I knew I'd never call him. I hate the phone. What if I suddenly have nothing to say? If someone calls me, they've at least come up with a few topics of interest to discuss; they've at least motivated themselves that much.

And so we talked. I told him about the stupidass article in the paper, and I told him about the art galleries in Santa Fe, and I told him about my passionate love for the South Washington Street Bridge. But at the same time, I hid.

What did I hide? I felt as though I'd placed a counter between myself and my maybe-new-friend. I didn't want him to know me, didn't want him to grope around through the telephone line trying to understand me... Felt as though, if he heard too much in my voice, if I wasn't careful with my words, he would know things too private to tell people... That sometimes I cry when I make love, even though I'm not sad. That sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy -- really crazy, not just "feel sorry for me, I'm nuts." That sometimes I'm a little obsessive, and sometimes I'm a little hypocritical, and just today, I felt deliriously vindicated and rather joyful over something incredibly trivial and stupid. That I have fucking no idea who I am, that I'm maybe in the throes of a full-fledged identity crisis, although I'm not really sure, and that all I really want in the whole world is to take a long bus trip someplace far away, doesn't matter where, as long as there are blue skies and coffeeshops. That I don't know who I am...

These are things that are easily stated here in the safety of my journal. After all, I can just pretend nobody's reading this.

"I can't tell you all my secrets..." --Audrey Horne, Twin Peaks

"So what kinds of work have you done before?" I ask him, trying to shape my voice into something it just doesn't quite fit into. He thinks I'm older than I am; I know that already; may as well try to live up to it, sacrifice the kid-giggle and the "likes" and "totally!'s"

He says he's done some still-lifes, some nudes of his ex-girlfriends... I strangle a giggle. Such a weird, weird conversation... Random stranger telling me about his pictures of his naked ex-girlfriends. I wonder, one eyebrow raised, what kind of poses, exactly, he wants me in... I strangle another giggle.

I realize how deathly silent my apartment is. I sort of clutch at the phone, sort of cuddle it to my cheek. Despite the fact that I do not know this person, despite the fact that I'm terrified of this person knowing me, I have the sudden sense of needing him, perhaps to ward off the silence, perhaps to make me feel as though someone WANTS to know me, perhaps to keep me on my toes, perhaps just to be a voice, perhaps just to make me sure I'm alive, because I'm not always sure on nights I'm alone in my apartment...

It's late. I need to go to bed.

~Helena*